I’ve been very quiet recently. All the words have been squeezed out of me either by, at or travelling to and from work. I hit the imagination pedal and there’s no acceleration of words to take me away from things, no flights of fancy to simmer the stew of tube-rage, no idle juxtapositions that involve Julianne Moore, me and ooh, nobody and nothing else.
Sigh. I am ill. I mean, I commute, so I’m always ill. In so many senses, but rest-assured that this is mere man-flu, and will be overcome with the time-honoured method of whining, procrastination and Guinness. Actually, thinking about it, Guinness tastes horrible with a cold — let’s stick to spirit-infused-Lemsip.
Hmm. What if you could buy medicines or sweets that really did impart the spirit of someone else? It would explain the Napoleons in the playground, I guess.
The weather has finally turned, and one of the few rewards of my trip across Perrin-Land are a few miles of misty meadows and paddocks, where I can imagine Boudica or assorted angles and jutes tramping around complaining about the weather and the constant delays to their pillaging and not-being-roman-ing by leaves on the line or staff shortages.
Perhaps in times of staff shortage, one railways could improve their service by simply taking a body part each from say eight staff to create a new member of staff, at no discernible cost nor impact on the customers.… I don’t know why I’m mean to ‘one’. It’s FCC who are the villains of the piece. I quite admire ‘one’ and it’s plucky lower-cased-ness and it’s constant announcements at Broxbourne that ‘trains to Liverpool Street are running approximately seven, oh-seven, minutes late’.
But I digress. Hurrah! Hurrah for digression, say I. Without digression there would be no congress (di — con, oh never mind) and no Bill of Rights. Or Ivan of Idiots. Hurrah!
I depart, in the inimitable words… actually, scratch that, they’re eminently imitable, unlike that last phrase, which is a bit of a mouthful. Ok, the hackneyed, cliche-ridden words of Sir Digby Chicken-Caesar, ‘to the SLOTTIES.…’.
